


Grow

by andromedarune



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Anxiety, College therapy kinda sucks, Comfort, Cue Emotional Barfing for 7 chapters, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Disordered Thinking + Habits, Dissociation, Eating Disorders, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Lots of tw holy shit pls read them all and be careful, No romanticizing mental disorders here my dudes, Reader-Insert, but it's therapy ig, catharfic, like a lot, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28900068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedarune/pseuds/andromedarune
Summary: Walking down the staircase towards self-destruction, you were the last thing Piers wanted to introduce into his life. But even when trapped between his ongoing battle between wanting to change and wanting to give up, you were as gentle as ever. And that frustrated him more than anything.[College AU]** TW DISCLAIMER: PLEASE BE WARNED THAT THIS STORY MAY BE TRIGGERING/DISTURBING FOR SOME PEOPLE. I WOULDN'T RECOMMEND READING THIS IF YOU ARE SEVERELY IMPACTED BY THE DISORDERS/MENTAL ILLNESS MENTIONED IN THE TAGS. **
Relationships: Nezu | Piers (Pokemon)/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 19





	1. Verse One

**Author's Note:**

> ** TW/CW: PLEASE READ NOTE **
> 
> Hi. This fic deals with some pretty heavy and triggering topics, including: Eating Disorders (a + b); Major Depression + Anxiety; Suicidal References and Ideation; Intrusive Thoughts; Emotionally Abusive Relationships; and maybe other stuff I haven't really processed or don't know the names of. If ANY of these things can be negatively damaging to you, I beg of you to please reconsider reading this fic. Far too many fan fictions and traditionally published stories dig into these topics without proper research, consideration, and/or warnings for their audience. So I am taking as many precautions as I can for this story. Maybe it can be cathartic for someone else like it has been for me.
> 
> It's also worth briefly mentioning that this story was adapted from a self-insert into a reader-insert. It also takes a lot of influence from my own personal experiences. So, uh, yeah, I can say I've done some research and thought before writing this fic. It likely isn't perfect or even a 'good' representation of these issues, but I didn't write this with the intent of using these things just for shock value, or 'for the angst' (trust me, I can make damn near anything angsty lol), or to make these characters likable or whatever. It's just a story I wanted to tell. That being said, if I missed an important TW warning, or if you have any questions/comments/concerns about this fic, please don't hesitate to reach out to me either here or through my writing Tumblr (@andromedarune). [pls be nice or constructive - being mean really gets nothing done and is a waste of your time lol]. 
> 
> Remember, if you happen to struggle with any of these things, please don't be afraid to reach out to an emotionally-available friend or mental health professional. You're a beautiful plant growing in a sea of chaos - though you are strong in your own right, sometimes all it takes is the small and kind support of a gardener to help you truly flourish. 
> 
> And uh yeah that's it. If you made it through all this shpeel and are still intent on reading, be mindful, and I hope you enjoy it for what it is. Thanks for reading.

_ ♪ Something always brings me back to you _

_ It never takes too long _

_ No matter what I say or do _

_ I still feel you here ‘til the moment I’m gone ♪ _

_ < * * * > _

Piers traced the rim of his blue coffee mug, trying his best to listen to the heated words of his partner. The warmth of the steam rising from the freshly brewed coffee, mixing together with the stagnant coolness of his favorite mug - those clashing sensations pricked at his fingertip, grounding him in reality for a little longer.

“Are you even  _ listening _ to me?” they cried out.

Piers hummed. 

“Then why don’t you look at me and  _ say something _ , for fuck’s sake?”

He looked up. Sure enough, his partner’s face was red, presumably hot tears streaming down their round face as the boiling frustration peeked in their eyes. Just that was enough for Piers to know that this was over. There was no fixing this.

“... Got nothin’ to say.”

He lowered his eyes in favor of looking into his coffee. He listened to his partner’s breath hitch at his cold words, their hands no doubt running madly through their soft hair as they finally reached their wit’s end.  _ Here it comes _ .

“You’re not even trying! Why am I working so goddamn hard literally every day, and you’re not even trying? Do you know how difficult that is for me? Can’t you think about anyone but yourself?”

He knew that his entire support system was caving in on just the other side of the kitchen, and yet all he could do was observe the black liquid within the cup. Sugar neglected, cream ignored - just black coffee in its simplest form.

“You’re not gonna say anything,” his partner stated matter-of-factly, even through the sobs that wracked their body. “You’re not even gonna lie to me. Am I not even worth  _ that  _ much in your eyes?”

“... Hardly a matter worth lyin’ about.”

Then came Piers’ favorite moment: the Pause. The very moment after he said something that he didn’t realize was absolutely horrible, where a dreadful silence would thicken the air around him to the point of suffocation. Any other soul would use this calm of the storm to sputter out an apology, say how they didn’t mean what they said, or that their words came out wrong - stuff that would indicate that there was a miscommunication between brain, mouth, and heart. But Piers stopped bothering with that a long time ago. At the end of it all, it didn’t matter what he said. There was no fixing this. There was no fixing  _ him. _ The Pause now only served to remind him of that, the void eager to watch as he once again ruined his life.

It wasn’t long before his coffee cup was snatched from his hands, flying across the room and crashing into the refrigerator. He hardly had time to process the sounds of his favorite mug shattering into a thousand pitiful pieces when his partner’s hand came hard across his face, nearly enough to send him out of the chair. He gripped the table just in time, a grimace settling onto his burning face.

“ _ Fuck you _ . You can sit there all fucking day and pretend that you’re the victim, but it’s  _ you _ who’s refusing everybody’s help. So have you little fucking pity party and, hey, while you’re at it, do us all a favor and  _ just fucking die already _ !”

Footsteps raced across the hardwood floor. A distant door getting kicked open, followed by a feverish jingle of keys. He didn’t dare move until the front door to his apartment opened and shut, no doubt signalling to the entire universe that he royally fucked up.

Seconds passed. Heated breath after heated breath. His eyes gently scanned the room, lips sewn shut as if that would somehow be enough to silence his labored breathing. The silence permeated through his skin, seeping through muscle and gnawing at bone - an eager silence, the kind that can’t wait to devour all sense of being with its haunting reticence. He ran a trembling hand through his hair as he glanced over at the damage just to his left. Coffee spilled all over the ground, sweet shards of blue porcelain strewn about the floor. All he could really do was sit there, staring. Maybe he shouldn’t have used that mug, he could help but think in his trance. It was his favorite, and therefore paid the price of his crimes. What a terrible thing to become, a martyr in the name of love. He didn’t bother picking up the pieces.

< * * * >

From the very back of the dimly lit classroom, Piers kept himself occupied, absentmindedly twirling the pen in his hand while his heel tapped up a rhythm in common time. Surely the professor was saying words, judging by the way the rest of the class was furiously taking notes and the teacher eagerly gesticulated some evidently exciting concept. Nevertheless, the words failed to bring Piers back into reality. He stared out ahead of him, eyes half-lidded and head resting on the wall behind him, static rushing through his skull like Jupiter’s ever-raging storm. Perhaps he could drown it all out with some music; surely he could hide his headphones with the aid of his long hair and just set his favorite playlist to shuffle. But that involved pulling out his earbuds, and then lifting his arms to unleash his hair, and then putting in said earbuds - far too much energy. Static it is, then. 

Piers lulled his head to the side, resting it awkwardly against his shoulder as that static nothingness twitched through his body. So much  _ nothing _ . A body devoid of anything but skin and bone and coffee. Coffee - maybe he should grab some more after class. But then he’d have to find something to do. Maybe do a raincheck on that coffee - take a nap after class, instead. That seemed like a good idea to him. It was only two in the afternoon - he still had one more class later that evening, and half the time he didn't even show up. Who really wants to sit through  _ another _ generic World History class? Definitely not him.

Piers let out a soft sigh, opting to lean forward just a bit on the desk. Why were desks so small in college? One would think that they would get bigger desks than what they got in grade school, considering everyone was, well,  _ bigger _ . How the other kids balanced all their notebooks and Macbooks and phones on that tiny surface that wobbled every two seconds was beyond him. He looked around; at least fifty other people in this tiny lecture hall, all scrunched up in their seats as they fought to write down every important detail that the professor noted in his lecture. Well, mostly. Some people, like him, were a bit more checked out. One girl shamelessly on her phone, another fast asleep, a guy who seemed to be catching up on that one popular Netflix show that everyone’s been talking about lately - even the person next to Piers seemed to be in their own little world. But before he could look away, his eyes caught something.

You sat there, huddled up in your tiny desk and commanded your pen with as much ferocity as the other more dedicated students, but your moments were a bit too spread out to be mistaken for writing. You were drawing. What you were drawing, Piers didn’t know; the desks were close together, but he’d still have to lean just a bit too much to be mistaken for an accident. But with that focused expression on your face, and the way you grinned just a bit like a child whenever you seemed to like a creative decision, Piers couldn’t help but grow curious at your creation. 

Just as he was about to look away, you lifted your eyes, catching him in the act of staring. A Pause.

This was a different Pause moment; the happier version of the far-more-intense Pause that Piers experienced earlier that week. Also affectionately dubbed “the Spark”. This was the brief moment of stillness in discovering another human being’s presence, regardless of whether you already know them or not. It’s a jolting sensation, racing from your heart down through your lips and all around your fingertips; it’s electric, and hypnotic. The moment you realize that someone is now embedded into your reality, that they are no longer just another faceless mannequin in the world. You’d always notice them from this moment on, no matter if you both ever actually interact again. Once the Spark occurs, this person becomes human in your eyes, a recurring thought in your internal monologue.

And you smiled.

Piers was the first to look away, busying himself once more in the twirl of his pen and the rhythm of his shoes. Sparks were just as bad as other Pauses; connection always ends, there will always be the looming disconnect. And no matter how many times he went through it, it  _ always _ hurt. He made a point to avoid any wandering eye movement until a few moments after everyone got up to leave, waiting until he was sure you were long gone.


	2. Sub-Verse One

_ ♪ You hold me without touch _

_ You keep me without chains _

_ I never wanted anything so much _

_ Than to drown in your love and not feel your rain ♪ _

_ < * * * > _

Piers heard his name called. He pocketed his phone, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket as he walked up to the front desk. Dona, the primary nurse, was already waiting for him.

“Good morning! You know, I always know it’s almost the weekend whenever I see your name on the appointment list!”

Piers managed a slight chuckle. 

“That so? What’re ya gonna do when I graduate? You won’t know what day it is.”

“Exactly! I’ll probably stumble through Fridays thinking that it’s still Thursday for months! But you still have one more year here, right?”

The two eventually dipped into one of the small check-up rooms. Piers knew the routine; he shrugged off his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair before sitting down, right arm extended across the arm rest.

“Just about. If I don’t screw that up, anyway.”

“You’ll be just fine,” she gave him a pearly white smile. “You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?”

“... S’pose so.”

“Then you’ll make it.”

He gave the teeniest, tiniest twitch of his mouth - a decent attempt at a smile. Dona was used to it, giving the young man a gentle pat on the arm before grabbing all her tools. She strapped on the blood pressure strap to his arm, snapped on the small heart-rate monitor to his index finger, gave him the thermometer, and waited for all the results to come in before removing them all. She went through her little barrage of questions - the usual ones that came with these particular sessions. As she typed that all in, Piers took a deep breath, readying himself for the worst part.

“Alright,” she gave him a timid smile. “Time to check your weight.”

He sighed, pushing himself up to his feet. 

It’s really a terrible thing - a dread akin to that of when his primary school teacher would ask for his homework, and he would pretend to search through his backpack despite the fact that he didn’t even do it. That’s exactly the sensation running through Piers’ body as he stepped onto the hospital scale, facing away from the numbers, watching the way Dona’s face twitched just in the slightest manner of disturbance. He knew it wasn’t a good number (it never was), and he knew that he should be doing something about that. But the troubled child who neglects their homework continues rifling through their things, constantly telling everyone “It’s in here somewhere” as the teacher moved on to bother with someone more worthwhile. Piers just wished that these people would move on, too.

Dona patted his shoulder, signalling for him to step off the scale. He grabbed his jacket, sinking into the now cooled garment as Dona sent off the final bit of numbers.

“Alright, that’s everything - just head on next door and Laura will be right with you.”

He hummed his thanks, more than eager to get the rest of this dog-and-pony show over with. 

The room next door clashed entirely with the hospital theming of the rest of Student Health - instead of white and gray and blue, the room was a mix of muted browns and greens, two bookshelves brimming with self-help books with the Target stickers still attached, a table topped with tissue boxes and fidget toys, a yoga ball in the background by the window, and - of course - Laura, who sat in her swirly chair, scanning one of the two computer screens on her desk. She saw Piers out of the corner of her eye, pausing to offer him a smile and gesture to one of the little couch-chairs adjacent to her. He slumped into it, pulling his hair across his shoulder so it didn’t get pinned underneath him.

“So,” she eventually swiveled to face him completely, crossing her legs, “what’s up?”

“Nothin’ much. It’s been the same day on repeat for years now. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

She shrugged, glancing back at the other screen, no doubt containing notes from the other professionals assigned to him. 

“More or less. That’s a good line, though - are you going to use it in a song?”

“Maybe.”

Laura skimmed more of her notes, perhaps waiting for him to continue speaking. But, like always, he remained silent. She turned back to face him, a soft but unforced smile on her sharp features.

“So, I noticed that you didn’t log your meals for the week. Did something happen?”

He shrugged.

“Nothin’ to log.”

“Water, coffee, tea - those are things you can write in there, too. Anything.”

“Fill out an entire six-minute questionnaire just to log one cup of water? Why don’t I just get a diary for you guys to read through?”

“I know it feels invasive and pointless, but it’s just so we can get a better understanding of things. The way you feel before and after you eat can usually help us see the underlying cause for disordered eating habits.”

“And then I’ll get another reason, right?”

Laura furrowed her brows.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, my therapist says it’s stress, my physician says it’s childhood trauma, my psychiatrist says it’s genetic hormone imbalance… Now it’s your turn to add a theory to the pile, right?”

“It’s hardly ever one singular reason for these things, Piers,” she says as kindly as possible, “and we’re all using our different backgrounds to try and figure out a few possible explanations in order to come up with the best plan of action.”

He bites down the bubbling words in his throat. As much as he wants to, he knows it would be best to keep those thoughts at bay. He opted for a different approach.

“I jus’ don’t feel like anythin’s workin’.”

“It takes time. Time and effort. But I think if you keep up the digital journaling and medication, you’ll feel yourself getting the means to start working towards recovery. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

He shrugged. All the energy he had to question these people dwindled away, leaving him mindlessly nodding in agreement. Laura beamed, turning around once more to look at her notes.

“Great. I’m glad you’re still willing to keep trying - that’s the first step. Now, there’s actually something I wanted to ask you...” She reached into her desk, pulling out a folded pamphlet and handing it to the man. His eyes narrowed in on the big orange font on the front.  _ Peace with Food. _

“... A support group?” he hummed, already frowning.

“A lot of students have said that they improved so much in their journey through recovery by attending these meetings. They’re once a week - hopefully the time fits with your schedule. Normally, it’s invite-only and closed to newcomers after the first week of the quarter, but I’m good friends with the people who run the group. He said he would love to have you join as soon as possible.”

His gut churned at some of the words he skimmed through.  _ ‘... uplifting stories… fellow students… not alone… discussion environment to educate… inspiring for everyone…’ _ It was bad enough talking to these people about his issues - the mere idea of even sitting in the same room as others like him nearly sent him scrambling to the bathroom right then and there.

“Yeah, uh, I don’t think I can do that,” he tried to hand the flyer back to her.

Laura could only offer a pitying expression; never a good thing to see. 

“Actually… There’s a bit of a problem. You see, I was going to originally offer this as an optional opportunity for you. But looking at your recent results, I don’t think that would be very fair or safe for your wellbeing.” His stomach dropped. “As it stands right now, there aren’t many options left. So, we’ve reached out to an out-patient program downtown.”

_ Oh.  _

An out-patient program. Never a good thing to  _ hear _ . But he could hardly blame them for considering it for him; three years of treatment and it seemed as though he was only getting worse. He didn’t really process that, though - it’s hard to see how bad it is through a dirty mirror. But the fact of the matter is that they were giving up. Send him somewhere else, let him be someone else’s problem. Huh, funny - that seems to be a running theme in his life.

“I know it’s a bit daunting,” Laura continued, “but those are the best options we have right now. I’d like for you to at least try the support group before we commit to anything like _ that _ , of course. But the bottom line is, we need to find something that will help you feel more motivated to improve. Maybe it would help for you to hear other people’s stories, and know that you’re not alone in this.”

He looked down at the pamphlet once more. All the words he should have said dissolved in the acid of his stomach. Piers couldn’t really see how listening to other people say the same thing over and over again would be of any use to him, but the idea of having to consider doing an out-patient program seemed considerably worse. Not only would he have to take an unknown amount of time off of school, but that label would be stuck on his back forever. Piers - that punkass guy in the back of the class, the one who writes songs on napkins with a Gibson Les Paul on his lap - the guy who one day decided to stop eating. The guy trying to start a music career who also happens to have those cliche fantasies of bashing his head in with a steel pipe, because that’s how all rock musicians are. Except he’s far too dramatic, going as far as to starve himself for the sake of the act.

He hadn’t realized his hands were trembling until Laura placed one of hers over his wrist.

“It’s worth a shot,” she smiled, eyes full of pity. Which is worse than hate, just for the record.

It was way more understandable for him to be hated - he didn’t know how to feel about being pitied. It all just seemed so fake to him, like they were just pretending to care for his sake. Indulging him and his little facade that he didn’t know how to stop.


	3. Chorus

_ ♪ Set me free, leave me be _

_ I don’t wanna fall another moment into your gravity _

_ Here I am and I stand so tall _

_ I’m just the way I’m supposed to be _

_ But you’re onto me and all over me ♪ _

_ < * * * > _

A few people knew he had some issues. His family, first and foremost, figured some of it out early on. But like parents do, they figured he was just being a moody teenager at the time and nagged him every day for several years before he moved out the very day he turned eighteen. 

His bandmates knew a bit, too; it wasn’t unusual for them to eat together after late-night performances, and they all learned to stop asking about his mysterious stomach problems he claimed to have. A few times they had to convince him to change lyrics to songs, finding what he had written down to be a bit…  _ much _ . Even for a hardcore punk rock band. But that’s the mind of a misunderstood rockstar, they figured, and left it at that. 

Then there was his therapist, which one of his exes had convinced him to see after a particularly rough freshman quarter. Then his psychiatrist, then his physician, then his nutritional therapist, and... Yeah. They probably knew a majority of it. But perhaps not as well as they think they do, seeing as he’s constantly switching medication to better manage the depression and always having different opinions on his basis for terrible self-care. Sometimes they were helpful, but more often than not, Piers left with nothing but a wasted hour of his life. Not that he could really blame them for that.

And then there were his exes. The first saw the worst of him, watching in a silent-horror fashion as he very suddenly began that downward spiral. They recommended going to Student Health services to get some help, since it was free at their college, and eventually he gave in and agreed. But it wasn’t long before they realized that he wasn’t getting better - if anything, things started getting  _ worse. _ He would stay up late pacing the floor, or stare out into nothing with no chance of being pulled back into reality, or even neglect everything he once had a burning passion for. They dealt with it for as long as they could, but eventually, all of his ugly behavior became far too much. He cried for weeks after that. Then there was his second partner, someone he met in one of his music theory classes. They considered themselves a genius of music, and certainly had the knowledge to back up their claims. In their eyes, he was lacking structure and discipline, so he soon ended up with a strict schedule to follow without fail. At first, he put in as much effort as he could: eating the meals they painstakingly created just for him, going for daily walks outside to get some fresh air and exercise, diligently following every task that they and his health providers recommended to him. But then, it all just… disappeared. His energy, his motivation, his want - all that routine turned into was yet another collar tugging him along from wasted day to wasted day. When he sought his partner for some sort of encouragement, they simply turned their nose at him, noting his laziness and pathetic desire for comfort despite being unworthy of it. They left a while after. He felt the sadness, but didn’t cry, that time; but he did end up closing in on himself for a number of weeks, shutting off his phone and locking himself in his apartment until eventually his bandmates came to make sure he was alive. And then, of course, his last partner. They were a psychology major, always one to offer their two-cents on whatever he mentioned. They gave him advice, they gave him encouragement, they gave him comfort - but only if he did as they wanted. Every time he made a hole in the road, it was nothing but silence - yes,  _ that _ silence. It sucked the life out of him; the rewards he got for their definition of improvement no longer seemed worth it, the punishments only numbing him more and more to the physical pain he dealt with every day. And, just like the others, they snapped, frustrated with his inability to make any sort of substantial progress. He, like his favorite coffee cup, was unfixable, a figure broken into a thousand tiny pieces that will draw blood from whoever dares to put them back together. And he sank into that fact, letting it fester into a jaded indifference towards anyone and everyone who figured to give him the time of day.

All that sitting in the back of his mind, Piers walked into the designated meeting room in the depths of Student Health, sinking a bit deeper in the warmth of a black and gray hoodie. He dressed down, not exactly wanting to stand out with his usual attire of leather clothes and heeled boots; he’d rather be a ghost, here, to just listen and nod until the clock struck five. Multiple other students were already there, all being youthful-looking girls, staring up at him in a bewildered shock. He grimaced, ignoring their eyes as he slipped silently into a chair away from everyone else. An older man later entered the room, a warm smile on his scruffy face.

“How’s it going, everyone? We’ll get started here in a few minutes - it looks like most everyone is here…”

He strode through the room, obviously walking around the little semicircle of comfortable chairs meant to facilitate discussion. Piers watched from the corner of his eye as the man opened up his tablet, occasionally looking at everyone one at a time as he no doubt ran through the attendance sheet. Once satisfied, he nodded to himself and pulled up a seat. The man opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the door opening.

Piers looked up and lost his breath.

You.

What were  _ you _ doing here?

This time, you were the one to break eye contact, shyly looking to the ground as you tiptoed into the room.

“Sorry I’m late…”

“No worries,” the older man smiled, “take a seat and we’ll get started.”

Of all the places to sit, you sat  _ there _ , the chair to the right of Piers. He leaned a bit more into his seat, trying desperately to avoid making any and all eye contact with you. This was  _ exactly _ what he didn’t want to happen. Not like that even was a possibility to him, of course.

“I’m glad to see everyone’s here, today,” the facilitator - John something-or-other - spoke up. “And, I’m sure you’ve noticed, we have a new face here. Normally I try to keep the same group of people throughout one quarter, but we made an exception. We’re all the same here, no matter what, so let’s all be understanding and supportive to each other, alright?”

Piers could have scoffed.  _ Might as well say I’m Jack the Ripper. _

“Also, I’ll remind everyone that these meetings are purely confidential - do not repeat any information spoken in here to anybody else outside of your health support team. On top of that, it’s also best to mention to the group if any of you interact outside of the group.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Piers saw you stuff a hand deep into the mess of your messenger bag. You pulled out a small, spiral-bound notebook - the same one he saw you drawing into during class the other day - and a simple ballpoint pen. Your hand shook just a bit as you flipped to find an empty page.

“Well,” John beamed, “if that’s everything, then let’s get talking. Last week, we had a great conversation about the influences of family and its impact on our mentality towards eating. Today, I thought it would be great to hear your guys more personal ideas - how are you  _ yourself _ influencing the way you go through life?”

A few of the girls looked amongst each other, either thinking of answers or waiting for someone else to speak. You, however, seemed entirely focused on a heavy-handed illustration. Thankfully, one of the other girls - a blonde with giant green eyes - cleared her throat.

“Well, uh, for  _ me _ , it’s always been about, y’know, stress. Like, everyone thinks it’s so weird that I stress-eat so much, and I know it’s never a good idea, but whenever I get super stressed I just can’t seem to stop myself, y’know? It’s like I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I’ve eaten an entire bag of bread and Nutella.”

Another girl, a sweet-looking Asian girl with a pixie cut, nodded in agreement.

“So you get that too? I can’t tell you how many times I just kinda zone out whenever things start getting rough - I’ll be fine for one minute, eating dinner or whatever, and then I’ll see a new assignment or something I have to do and I’ll freak out and the only way for me to calm down is to throw it all up.”

Some of the other girls voice their agreements. John leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.

“People deal with stress in different ways. Sometimes, though, we can develop and unintentionally encourage problematic or dangerous coping mechanisms as a means to deal with it. That’s why it’s so important to find new ways to just get out of your head and calm down before the disordered habits have a chance to pick up.”

A brunette with a strangely ornate fan chimed in.

“That’s right - that’s what they told me during my out-patient program. One of the things we used to do was play games right after dinner; the goal was to make it through at least thirty minutes without engaging in disordered habits. Me and this other girl used to play slide - we got so good at it, that the other girls could come over to watch us for, like, five minutes straight and be too into our game to even need to do anything for themselves! It was great!”

They all then turned their eyes to both the oblivious you and the nervous Piers. He looked over at you, who hunched a bit more as if to block out everyone from your line of sight. He couldn’t blame you.

“Anything you two would like to add?” John asked gently. The other girls glanced at each other. 

Piers eventually just waved the question off, staring hole into his scuffed-up black tennis shoes. John shrugged, visibly turning to better face the rest of the group.

Piers looked over, tuning out the discussion all around him in favor of focusing on the sound of pen against paper. You seemed to have relaxed a bit, now that all of those prying eyes were no longer trained on you, and your pen danced across the paper with an air of ease. Much of the page was covered entirely in haphazard sketches, their intended forms remaining undecipherable from the distance Piers was from it. A few dark blotches of furious scribbles peppered the paper, he noticed. Perhaps this was how you dealt with your stress. Definitely better than how he handled it, that’s for sure. 

A twinge of curiosity sparked in his chest once again, pulling him just a centimeter closer to you. Why were you here? Well, okay, maybe that was a stupid question. He knew why you were here - there really was only  _ one _ reason why you were here. But why was  _ that _ ? What were your methods, your routines, your mindsets? Was it an appearance thing? Or was it a more internal thing? Did you even have an answer for it? All these questions flashed through his mind faster than he could stop them. Never had he actually acknowledged anybody else with the same issues as he; in fact, this was the first time he felt some semblance of interest in meeting someone who also had problematic eating habits. In a room full of blank faces, Piers could only look at yours and accept that it was human.

“I’m sorry, but, uh, what was your name again?”

Piers looked over, pulled from his thoughts as the well-dressed girl with the fan frowned in his general direction. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that it wasn’t him she was looking at, but you. When you realized that everyone had fallen silent, you hesitantly looked up, seeming more than uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” the girl continued, hiding her slightly forced laughter behind the flutter of her fan. “It’s just that, well, I can’t focus on what I’m saying because I’m getting distracted by the sound of you drawing.”

Piers watched you make just the slightest hint of a frown; he, however, wasn’t afraid to furrow his brows. John paid it no mind, simply giving another smile.

“Ah, yes,” he said a name - presumably your name, “it might be best if you put the notebook away. Maybe today you can give some input?”

The other girls agreed. With all of the hesitation in the world, you slowly closed the notebook, tucking it away into your bag as you fiddled with the pen in your hands. John seemed ready to explain the prompt to you once again, but you shifted a bit in your seat.

“I don’t like food,” was all you said.

The others gave you puzzled expressions, one girl making an awkward smile as if she wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not. Piers wasn’t sure what to make of your words, either.

“Like…” the blonde girl piped up, “you don’t like eating or…”

“I don’t like food,” you repeated again, plain as day. “I don’t like eating it, I don’t like smelling it, I don’t like the idea of it - I don’t like it.”

The Asian girl fiddled with the distressed hole of her designer jeans.

“Why?”

You shrug.

“I don’t know.”

“You never thought about it?”

“I do. But I don’t know why. I just don’t.”

The fancy-looking girl opened her mouth, but was cut off by John clapping his hands together joyfully.

“We appreciate you getting the courage to speak today. Maybe some discussion from here on out will be beneficial for helping you figure out the cause for these issues.”

That seemed to be enough to satiate the others. They all turned their attention from you, instead making their own respective remarks at the helpfulness of discussing things like this. Piers could see you nervously tapping your pen against your thigh, drumming up a rhythm he attempted to zero in on. 

_ Tap-tap… Tap-tap… Tap-tap, pause-tap… _

… Or, maybe instead… 

_ One-two… One-two… One-two, a’three…  _

_ One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two, a’three… _

A waltz, in ¾ time. Swing tempo. 

That simple yet deliberate rhythm repeated enough times for Piers to be sure of it. Peeking through the static in his mind came a few random notes, adding some color to the black-and-white nature of a basic drummed rhythm. 

With notes came chords, with chords came melody, and with melody came counterpoint - it wasn’t long before your innocent tic became a symphony in the depths of Piers’ imagination. For once, he thought of a classical ensemble rather than a basement rock group - he figured that with you in your baggy brown cardigan and light denim jeans might pair up nicely with a quartet of soothing clarinets. Perhaps a piccolo in the distance, tweeting a call and response between it and the glockenspiel. A gentle hum reverberates from within the depths of the low brass, accenting the autumnal glow of your clothes, as if to reach out and caress the wispy fly-aways of your hair.

_ Clap _ .

Piers blinked a few times, forcing his eyes to readjust to reality; John clapped his hands together, seeming more than pleased with the result of the day, whatever that was.

“Thank you, guys. I think we covered a lot of ground today, and I’m glad for everyone’s input. The first step towards recovery is taking the initiative to get better. I’ll see you all next week, then.”

Every sang their goodbyes, grabbing their things as they readied to move on with their lives. Piers couldn’t help but glance over in your direction once more. His heart practically slammed to a halt when he realized that you were looking back at him. A little smile slipped onto your face.

“Glad to know I wasn’t the only one dragged here,” you winked. Piers frowned. “Don’t worry - I’ve been in this group for three quarters now and only talked probably a total of four times.”

Now that he’s got your voice echoing in his skull, he’s quite sure you would go quite nicely with a clarinet to play your little melody. Low notes only, deep and soothing, warm and inviting. It’s a bit distracting to him.

“You sayin’ that to get me to talk, or to keep me quiet?”

You shrug, swinging your bag up to your shoulder. Even the way you move is so oddly  _ real _ : slightly unbalanced, spontaneous yet so fluid. Huh. 

“More like I’m trying to give you some peace of mind. You kinda get used to the awkwardness after the first few sessions. Well, most people do, anyway...”

You stand to your feet. So does Piers. He hardly has time to process that he’s walking out and down the hall, hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he walks by your side. It’s as if the mere sound of your voice is all he can focus on.

“You’re in English 118A, right?” you suddenly glance up at him. The height difference is the next thing he can’t ignore; why is he so much taller than you, and yet  _ he’s _ the one following  _ you _ ? Just another odd blast of realism to your presence. “You’re the guy who doesn’t take notes.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, trying to ignore the fact that you just called him out.

“And  _ you’re _ the one who draws instead of at least pretendin’ to pay attention.”

You laugh. Suddenly it’s twinkling trills of flutes, the occasional wrong note adding a deeper layer of hyper-complex harmony that nearly had Piers stumbling over himself. It wasn’t a  _ cute _ laugh - no, he was certain of that. But it was one he could hear more of.

“Okay, you got me there,” you snicker, “but in my defense, I’m already pretty familiar with  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream. _ Feels like every year since grade school, I’ve been reading something Shakespearean.”

“That so?”

Not the best response he could have given, but it was hard to think of words fast enough before his brain started going on a zoned-out tangent again. Thankfully, you didn’t seem to mind, taking a few giant steps ahead to push the door of the Health building before he could. You stood there, holding it open with a bright smile. Hints of weariness resided within the beauty of your face.

“Yeah. If you ever need a study buddy for that class, I’d be happy to help. Might be nice to study with someone who won’t make me order an extra large pizza for once.”

He paused. 

Ah, this Pause moment. Not so dreadful as  _ the _ Pause, but not so groundbreaking as the Spark. This was, as he liked to call, an Intermission. A brief moment of stillness in which two or more people turn that spark into a flame. Something akin to a firm handshake at the start of a friendship, or the first kiss between lovers. A bond towards solidarity, the jump from strangers to something  _ more _ , whatever that was. This one was always so hard to identify, as many people hardly ever realize that little change of status in the eyes of another. But in his time, Piers had begun to notice this sort of thing and gain a bitter appreciation for them. They helped him determine how much time he had left before he failed someone else for the millionth time. 

And yet, against his better judgement, he couldn’t help but fall a little deeper into the warmth he found in your eyes.

“... Sure.”


	4. Verse Two

_ ♪ You loved me ‘cause I’m fragile _

_ When I thought that I was strong _

_ But you touch me for a little while _

_ And all my fragile strength is gone ♪ _

_ < * * * > _

For someone who hardly ever seemed to pay attention in class, you sure knew how to write a killer essay.  _ ‘The great art of bullshit,’ _ you had told him after your third study session together, smirking over the lid of your thermos.  _ ‘Well, bullshit and Sparknotes.’ _ You were leagues better than him at gathering information from whatever you were reading, so he often had no choice but to ask for your help with most every reading assignment that came with the class. And you, in all your strangeness, happily agreed every single time.

Eventually the quarter came to an end; the final exam was said and done, and Piers figured that this would be the end of your interactions together (he dared not decide on another term for it). And yet, later that evening, he caught a message from you, asking if he was headed home for Winter Break.  _ ‘Hell no,’ _ he replied. He half-expected you to go into a little tangent, tell him that he ought to go see his family, try and connect with those who gave him life (whatever ‘life’ even really is for him at this point), and pretend to be a normal person with normal problems. 

_ ‘Unless you have other plans, I’m gonna spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day watching terrible movies. Feel free to stop by, if you want.’ _

He typed up his usual two-letter response, only to pause just before sending it off. Really, what  _ else _ did he have to do those two days? Stare into yet another notebook, constantly telling himself ‘ _ I’m writing music, I’m writing music’ _ while sitting in that dark stillness for hours straight? Let his mind wander into those staticy delusions of either grandeur or blankness while the clock ticked silently beside his bed? Scry into yet  _ another _ cup of black coffee - in a cup he hardly cared for - searching desperately for the answers he knew he could never find in the confines of a caffeinated liquid? 

Do all of that, or spend even the shortest of moments with you? 

A dangerous decision only bore dangerous consequences. Even if you’d ever consider him in  _ that _ light, the likelihood of his self-fulfilling prophecy was much too high for him to ignore. You would expect so much from him, and he would never add up to it. You would get hurt, some way or another. Was that really something he could sit through again, watching the person he once cared so much for see all the love drain from his eyes as he shut down once more? 

But he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were an outlier. You were the only one who didn’t ask too many questions - not from a lack of care, but because you probably already knew the answers. The way you always had a stick of sugar-free gum on hand every time the two of you passed by a restaurant or cafe was proof enough, the two of you silently affirming to yourselves that your unhealthy fears weren’t fabricated cries for attention. Against his better judgement, you were no longer just another faceless mannequin in the crowd of bodies; you became real to him and, by some terrible fate, had all the means to understand him better than any other.

He changed his answer, and continued forward.

_ < * * * > _

The following week, he met you at your apartment. Apparently, you roomed with three other girls (who all attended the same school as you both), but they were out of town to visit their families for the holidays. You had that smile on, the one bright enough to light up the world, holding the door open for him yet again while draped in a thick fleece blanket.

“I hope you’re ready to die of cringe,” you watched him enter your place, seeming more than pleased with how he glanced around at the neatness of the living room. Apparently, you had made everything rather comfortable; the couch was covered in similar but different colored fleece blankets, pillows practically tumbling off the furniture, along with your laptop balancing atop of an Amazon box that rested on the coffee table. “I’ve got literally the  _ worst  _ movies lined up for today, and then some feel-good classics to be our palate cleansers.”

Piers noticed that you were barefoot, so he peeled off his sneakers and made his way to the couch. You disappeared down the hall for a brief moment, the only evidence of your existence being the tiny little  _ tip-taps _ of your feet against the tile of your kitchen.

“Not sure how long I’ll stay,” Piers called out, slumping into the warmth of the couch. He lazily stroked one of the fuzzy blankets; maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to ask where you bought them, especially since it’s so cold out during the winter. “But don’t be afraid to kick me out whenever.”

“Already trying to find an excuse to run away?” you laughed in the distance. “I can’t be  _ that _ bad of a host!”

“It’s more of me sayin’ that I don’t make for good company.”

You tip-toed in, carrying several things at once with the aid of the giant blanket around your shoulders.

“Nah, not really.” You dropped everything you held on the ground before the couch, smiling proudly at the assorted items. Piers flicked up an eyebrow at a few. “These should keep us alive for the next two days, so feel free to steal whatever you want. If something’s not your jam, though, let me know and we can order something or whatever. Oh, and I have tea and coffee in the kitchen, too, along with extras of, well, everything here.”

Four bottles of cold water, six bags of dried seaweed, several packets of sugar-free gum, and a couple bags of plain almonds. Piers glanced between you and the pile.

“You don’t have to,” you quickly added, pulling your blanket a little tighter around you. “Just in case, y’know? We both might be sitting here for a while, so I just figured I’d offer something before we got started.”

“It’s fine. Just caught me off-guard, is all.”

He leaned forward, taking a water bottle and a bag of seaweed. He’d never tried it before; he looked around to read the nutrition list. You grabbed your own treasures, quickly sinking into the couch beside him as you got your laptop ready.

“Do you count?”

“Huh?” he looked back at you, seeing your eyes focused on the screen of your computer. He didn’t recognize the site you were on; probably a pirating site for shitty movies, by the looks of it.

“Do you count? Y’know, like, calories?”

He shrugged, tearing open the packaging.

“Not really. It’s hard to keep track of.”

“I get it. I used to try and do all the math in my head, but I ended up just getting an app to keep track of all that stuff for me.”

Piers inspected one of the squares of seaweed. A peculiar, salty scent was faintly detectable; he carefully pulled off a sliver of it, letting it rest on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. Not bad, just different. But best of all, it was feather-light and only had its flavor to offer.

“They seriously have apps for calorie countin’?”

“Corporate greed is a blessing and a curse,” you shrugged, digging into a bag of almonds once you got the film all loaded up. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Anyway, we’re watching Neil Breen movies first.”

“Who’s that?”

You laughed, slapping the spacebar with a sinister grin.

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough…”

Over the course of the first movie, the two of you made some small conversation in a feeble attempt to save your brains from melting at the utter stupidity of the film. Thirty minutes of watching a man run up and down the same desert hill definitely hurt to watch. But you made some great jokes, somehow making the experience actually fun with your witty commentary and dramatic screams of  _ ‘PLEASE GOD ENOUGH WITH THE TUNA CANS’.  _ Your easy-going and joyful nature seemed to be enough for all bits of tension to fade from Piers’ body, feeling strangely comfortable in the moment as he shamelessly swaddled himself in one of your many blankets.

“Comfy?” you grin over towards him, watching the way he seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into the folds of the fuzzy blanket. You couldn’t help but giggle at the way his hair seemed to ooze over the fabric, waves of bicolored hair flowing like rivers.

“You might lose a blanket after this.”

“Go ahead. I love this brand - it’s like being absorbed by a fuzzy blob monster. Perfect for winter nights.”

He hummed. For the briefest of moments, he glanced over to you; you were right beside him, the warmth of your cocoon melding with his. It would be much warmer if the two of you shared a blanket. But that idea got shunned the very instant Piers recognized it. While he was still wearing his hoodie and some sweatpants (you told him to dress comfortably, after all), he wasn’t exactly the most comfortable person to cuddle with. Not to mention all that extra contact might be a bit too distracting.

After a few minutes of terrible-movie-watching, you stirred, making a tiny groan of discomfort. 

“Bathroom break,” you awkwardly laugh to yourself, attempting to detangle your blanket from around your body. 

Piers reached over to pause the movie, his mouth ready to make a joke, but the moment your upper body broke free, his voice was sucked out from his chest. He silently watched as you pulled off the blanket, pausing briefly to stretch yourself out before slinking off to wherever your bathroom was. He didn’t think to be discreet about the way he had watched you; you didn’t seem to react to it if you did notice. But even when you had always seemed so grounded in reality to him before, he couldn’t help but note the surreal experience he had witnessed.

You, with all your smiles and laughter.

You were just as bad as he was.

Normally, you always wore that baggy brown cardigan over whatever white or black shirt you had on, some straight-legged pants and tennis shoes to boot. But that was on campus. So of course, when at your home with no plans to venture outside, you would wear your pajamas. But with your legs and arms finally exposed, having no fabric to conceal the way your knobbly joints stuck out between notably slender limbs, Piers could see the sudden gravity of your situation. 

Now that he really thought about it, he hardly knew anything about your problems. You always were eager to discuss simpler things - the essay in your literature class, your reaction to the latest blockbuster film, the quality of coffee at that one campus cafe you liked to drag him to sometimes. Only a couple times did you ever mention food. Sure, he knew that you didn’t like it and that you counted, but other than that… nothing else had been said. It had never felt like the elephant in the room between the two of you. Now, though, Piers wasn’t sure if he could resist his own curiosity. He had never  _ met _ someone as bad as him, before.

He could hear you finishing up, and immediately felt a brief wave of panic coil around his stomach.

Should he ask? Should he ignore it?

What if he asked, and you got upset with him?  _ It’s none of your business _ , you might say,  _ I never ask about  _ your _ disorder - why would you think we’re that good of friends? _ You might kick him out immediately after, and never speak again.

What if he  _ didn’t _ ask, and you still got upset?  _ If you didn’t care,  _ your voice echoed in his imagination,  _ why did you even show up? _ And the result stays the same.

Either way, he could screw things up. He could end up returning home, doomed to spend the corrupted holiday of family entirely alone, having ruined yet another thing he briefly enjoyed in life. That’s how it always goes, right?

No, no - you were a different story. He wanted so desperately to be sure of that. You were so warm, so gentle, so understanding - even despite his initial awkwardness, you were  _ good _ . Surely you wouldn’t hate him for asking. Surely you couldn’t.

When you came back out, you were still smiling. However, it dimmed a bit when you processed his slightly nervous expression. You glanced down at yourself, perhaps feeling a bit embarrassed; you wrapped your arms around your waist, swaying gently from side to side.

“I, uh… I hope I didn’t freak you out.”

“No, it’s…” he paused, thinking of his words carefully as he pulled himself out of his cocoon. “I just… um…” He attempted a chuckle, but it just sounded like a choked cough. “I mean, they show us pictures of this all the time, but… I don’t know, it’s a bit different to see someone else like this in real life…”

You walked over to the couch, sitting just a bit closer to him.

“Like you?”

He hummed, lifting one of his hands from his lap. It trembled just a bit as he held it for you to see. With a tenderness unprecedented, you took his hand, carefully inspecting it as if you would find the meaning to life there. He watched as you compared your own hand with his; yours suddenly small against his, a fact that made his heart clench with some strange emotion. Even still, he felt like he was the small one here, that you were some greater entity that he could never truly comprehend no matter how hard he tried.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. His attempt to cover up his sharp intake of air floundered; you caught his gaze in an instant. Words seemed to evade you, yet the slight nervousness within your ever-warm eyes wrote novels to him. Some emotion was there, some silent reassurance of,  _ ‘This isn’t okay, but I’m here for you’ _ . Piers’ mind went blank. No more static. No more thought. There was no resisting something like that.

The kiss came as a surprise to you, as evidenced by your startled squeak once he pulled you to him. Your tension quickly evaporated, hands gently reaching up across his shoulders to stay as close as possible.


	5. Chorus, Repeated

_ ♪ Set me free, leave me be _

_ I don’t wanna fall another moment into your gravity _

_ Here I am and I stand so tall _

_ Just the way I’m supposed to be _

_ But you’re onto me and all over me ♪ _

< * * * >

It was the worst at night.

Daytime was busy, spent mostly moving from place to place, thinking one thing before trickling down to another thought without regard to how he got there (if there were thoughts to be found in the first place, of course). Daytime was when all was made to be ever-thinking, ever-daydreaming, ever-sentient.

But nights were the opposite. With the world dyed in all those deep shades of gray, blue, and purple, an unspoken vow of reticence felt required. Thoughts put on hold, chores saved for another time, emotions tucked beneath the covers as your eyes shut everything away. Nightmare was, at its core, ever-still. It was its own quiet little eternity.

In this silent evermore, those determined thoughts that already bothered Piers for much of his waking life returned to him with a fiery vengeance. Memories of unsavory pasts, made-up premonitions of tomorrow’s agonies, all wrapped together with an endless monologue of countless atrocities meant just for him - sleep really couldn’t have been any less possible. It certainly didn’t help with how he hugged the longways end of the bed, one leg dangling down while the other was pulled up snug against his chest. You were still curled up beneath the covers near the wall, head just barely visible beneath one of your favorite fluffy blankets.

Wasn’t he okay earlier? Things had to have been okay earlier. Just that day, you were reminiscing on a trip from last week, flipping through the photos on your phone as you made yourself comfortable at his side. Pictures from the stores you visited, the items you bought on sale, a handful of cute succulents you happened to adore. Pictures he didn’t recognize, despite his face being in a few. A good few. Even smiling in some. Why couldn’t he remember that?

Days muddied against days, further mashed together by the endless eternity that was night. Every time, he’d get so close to drifting off just by the rhythmic breathing coming from you, only to be jerked awake by some loathsome feeling.

The feeling of exhaustion.

The feeling of dread.

The feeling of emptiness.

He resisted the urge to sigh. All those feelings bubbled up inside him, churning his insides like some cruel witch’s brew, each individual molecule screaming at him for release. The burning sensation deep within his aching muscles crawled like fire ants up his arms and shoulders, clawing their way across his curled up back as they dug tunnels into the meat of his core. Thought after thought after  _ thought, _ those feelings only grew. Static ringing loud as a church organ in his brass skull. Starving maggots of apprehension digging into his sides. The bigger the thought - the more intrusive the thought - the faster his tired heart beat against his fluttering chest. Against the peace of night, he laid there in his own torture hoping he could just stay still a little longer to fall asleep, all while some wicked, dischordant choir of self-imposed demons jowled their hymns.

It wasn’t long before it became too much. His own internal cacophony trapped within an external silence. That everlasting, ever-present, ever- _ judging _ silence. 

Images one after the other wafted through his mind in steady succession. One so grotesque was enough to force Piers out of the bed, stumbling to the hall as he tried desperately to keep quiet.

He just needed to clear everything out.

He was quick to lock himself in the bathroom as he always does, even quicker to start that laborious process of throwing away his frustrations, worries, aches and fears. With how tightly shut his eyes were, how desperately he focused on the matter at hand, it was always hard to realize that with those terrible things went all his hopes and dreams and joys. Yet even still, he was anything but ignorant to his own self-destructive tendencies. 

Time became irrelevant in these instances. The consistency of the bright fluorescent bulbs gave the impression of a man-made eternity there, in the bathroom, no windows to add any complexity or constraint to the ritual. He could be in there for however long he pleased, for the world outside that tiny room no longer applied. Piers could simply exist for the sake of existing here. He no longer was a flawed commodity for the world to pass around - no parents to disappoint, no opportunities to flounder, no partners to leave unsatisfied. Here, he could live as selfishly as he pleased, and no-one but him would suffer. A perfect dystopia, left in a changeless vacuum.

Lifting his chin to the ceiling, the man took a moment to just breathe. The little flecks of euphoria danced around his head, sprinkling curious pin-pricks onto the pads of his fingers, numbing his joints and his chest and his stomach. For the briefest of moments, he was satisfied.

What a terrible thing to be proud of. He knew that. He  _ very well _ knew what was happening and knew it was anything but good. Soon, that euphoria caramelized beyond palatability, rotting him from the inside-out with its cruel comforts. By the time Piers got himself all cleaned up, all that was left within him was shame. Shame and static.

Piers meandered back into the bedroom. He could just barely see your eyes squinting through the darkness, body upright as you focused in on him. The man remained silent, trying to quiet his own internal shame as he shut the door and shuffled into the bed.

“Not feeling good?” You asked pensively.

He simply shrugged, curling up on the bed with his back to you. Of course he woke you up. He didn’t even know what time it was, and all his shenanigans were enough to get you wasting your energy with concern for him. Or something _like_ concern. The shame made its way to his throat. Despite the feeling of your eyes watching him from your place in the bed, Piers made himself small and shut his eyes. _Just go to sleep_ _and forget about it._

But this was you, of course. You, in your weird, strange, confusing ways. A warm hand hesitantly pulled at his shoulder, coaxing him to lay on his back. He looked out to see your eyes gazing down on him, an odd expression of gentility that only you could produce. 

“Tell me what you need right now and I’ll do my best to help.”

“Don’t worry about it,” was his reply, cutting a bit sharper than he intended.

He didn’t miss the way you flinched a bit in the darkness. For a moment, he wished you would just walk away already. What were you still doing here, anyway?

“Relax. No-one needs to be upset right now, so… just breath for a minute with me, okay?”

You pressed a hand to his cheek, thumb softly massaging the peak of his high cheekbones. He heard you took a deep, long breath - something like what they taught you in therapy. Despite the biting retort that bubbled in the back of his throat, the man complied with your recommendation. He followed your breathing, watching you hover above him as you gently breathed in the darkness. Something was… different, somehow. He’d done this exact same exercise a thousand times and yet… this was something entirely different. You there, cheering him on quietly whenever he finished a round; you there, keeping him steady and focused. It was different than sitting alone in his room trying to focus on his own, and leagues easier than trying to breathe with a rather impersonal shrink making annoying jokes the whole while. You were cool yet warm, consistent yet unpredictable - you were, to put it bluntly,  _ comforting _ . A word he was hardly familiar with. The warmth you gave was impossible for him to resist any longer; his eyes fluttered shut, head pressing against the palm of your tender hand as he let out a heavier exhale. That pulled a laugh from you. The warmth suddenly vanished.

Piers’ eyes shot open, blinking in the darkness as he searched for you in a panic; you retreated to your end to grab your fuzzy blanket, taking your time as you wrapped it around the two of you. 

“You can always just ask if you want stuff like this from me, you know,” you smiled, lifting an arm so that an opening beneath your chin could see easily seen. “If it helps you feel better, then I don’t mind.”

He blinked. That… wasn’t right, was it? 

That’s not how it was supposed to go - why were you doing this? What purpose would it bring, acting in this way? You knew what he did, right? Right?

“You shouldn’t have to…” he lost his words for a moment, trying to stabilize some coherent sentence in his mind before continuing on. “... I’m sorry, I just… don’t want you to feel like you have to help me.”

You attempted a laugh, though it sounded more like a strange exhalation rather than a giggle. A terrible laugh, you have, though a genuine one all the same.

“Come on, now, Piers,” you pulled him close. “I’m not here to help you. I’m here to love you. But I’d be happy to give you some tools to help yourself love you the same way I do.”

That was enough to completely freeze him up on the spot. You seemed to pick up on his frozen confusion, deciding to take it upon yourself to coax the much taller man into the nook of your chest before settling the two of you beneath the heat of fluffy fleece.

Despite your reasoning being beyond his comprehension, Piers let himself melt into your embrace, carefully slinking his arms around your person as he took a deep breath. You really didn’t make any sense to him. But then again, when have you ever? But against any logic of reality and surreality, you were his, and he was yours. And that was really all that mattered to him.

< * * * >

Piers meandered through the escaping crowd, eyes squinted not from the sunlight but from the sparks of static discomfort that jolted through his arms whenever he brushed past some stranger. He lifted his chin a bit; at least he towered over practically everybody he came across, but it hardly mattered when his gaze always seemed to droop down to his feet scuffling along below him. 

Eventually, the crowd thinned, students all moving on with their lives to attend other lectures or see their friends or whatever else people his age ought to be doing in college. His hand dipped into his pocket in sudden remembrance, pulling out his phone to check his notifications. No new messages. 

He frowned, a small wave of panic beginning to rummage through his gut. He texted you early this morning, checking in with you that you made it to class alright - the same as what he normally does on days when you didn’t stay over. You were always so good at responding to him. Were you okay?

Cutting through the anxiety came a thought. ‘ _ Don’t fret what you can’t fix, _ ’ it called to him, voice strange and weak, but loud enough to steady the tremor in his fingers,  _ ‘focus on what you can’. _ Piers caught himself nodding, pausing briefly to take a breath through his nose and out his mouth. You’re an adult - an independent individual who can do and go as they please. There were a thousand reasonable explanations for your lack of a response. The best thing to do would be just to head back to the apartment and wait. 

So, Piers veered to the left, making his way through the central street surrounded by various shops on campus. He focused on his breathing.  _ One two three four five six seven eight… and… ten nine eight seven six five four three two one…  _ Swirling visualizations of blue spirals reverberated through his dizzied mind, its mass gently pushing away the fiery static.  _ One two three four… one two three… One-two… One-two… One-two, a’three…  _

_ One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two, a’three… _

A waltz, in ¾ time. Swing tempo. 

He stumbled a bit in his steps, feeling his cheeks flame up as he wiped a hand across them. He couldn’t help but wonder: Would you be happy to see him practicing what you showed? Would you reward him, or point out his flaws? Would you acknowledge it at all?

_ ‘Come on, now, Piers’ -  _ memories of you from a couple days ago echoed through his mind -  _ ‘I’m not here to help you. I’m here to love you. But I’d be happy to give you some tools to help yourself love you the same way I do.’ _

He let out a somber grin in memory. You certainly had a way of saying things, that’s for sure. It only made him miss you more and more.

Just as he was about to walk down the steps leading to the paths off-campus, Piers caught sight of a familiar shade of brown just outside of a coffee shop. The one you liked. He quickly halted in his tracks, slinking past hurried college students in order to get a second look.

It was you.

The cloud of relief was short-lived. It was you, definitely, but you were hunched over a table, one knuckle crunched between your teeth while you endlessly  _ click-click-click _ ed the button of a ballpoint pen. Eyes unfocused, all signs of consciousness lost in your unblinking expression as you stared down at a lined composition notebook.

That didn’t seem good.

Piers wasted no time in making his way over to you, gently brushing a hand across your shoulder before thinking to take a seat beside you. It startled you a bit, but once your eyes focused on his concerned smile, you relaxed a bit.

A bit.

You shuffled to the left some, and Piers sat beside you. Almost immediately you returned to your blank staring, though you at least lowered your pen-wielding hand.  _ Click. Click. _

“It’s not a big deal,” Piers lowered his voice a bit, “but I sent you a message this morning and you never responded. I got worried.”

You blinked a couple times.  _ Click. Click. Click. _

Oddly monotonous for you, that rhythm.

“My phone’s dead,” you eventually mumbled out. “I won’t be able to charge it until I get back. So four more hours.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

You nodded.  _ Click. Click. Click. Click. _

Several questions started popping into Piers’ mind, so fast he couldn’t settle on just one to even consider an answer to. He parted his lips a bit to just say one at random, but reconsidered it all as he looked down at your notebook.

Numbers. Timestamps. A list of items. Sums that were scratched out and rewritten, only to be scratched out once more. Short phrases that were incomprehensible to him jotted down in the margins. Lots of dark, blotchy sketches.

Ah, well, that explained it.

One would think that with all the therapy and counseling he’s had on this stuff he would’ve known what to do. Offer some advice. Lend some encouragement. And yet there he was, fumbling awkwardly as you  _ click-click-click _ ed away at your ballpoint pen, fighting through his staticy memories in hopes of finding something to help ease your anxiety. Deep breathing? No, you were the one who told him that - besides, deep breathing was Mental Illness 101. Mindfulness? Nah, that only ever worked if you weren’t too far gone - no way you can take those ‘ _ Forgive and love yourself uwu’ _ mantras seriously when you hardly have perception of what ‘ _ you _ ’ even are anymore. What about distraction? Sure, yeah, maybe he could distract you for the fifteen minutes you had together before you had to go to lecture. Then what would you do for the next - what did you say -  _ four hours _ of your day?

He watched as you bite off another sliver of flesh from your index knuckle; you didn’t even react at the sliver of thick blood that was quick to escape down your finger. You mindlessly licked it away.

Okay, he was starting to get an idea as to how you might have felt the other night. You definitely had a different pain and disgust threshold than he did, that’s for sure.

His eyes caught one of the scribbles on the page - one of your stress doodles, it seemed, some harshly drawn figure running over the words ‘Black Coffee’ and ‘Cinnamon gum’. It ignited a thought in his mind.

The taller man rested his head on a fist, giving a smile towards the page.

“Hey, I’ve been thinkin’ - I’d really like to see more of your sketches.” You glanced at him from the side, but otherwise remained still.  _ Click-click _ . “Can I ask if you could draw me somethin’ I can hold onto? That way I don’t have to pester you on your long days - I can just look at your drawin’s so I feel better.”

He watched your head turn a bit, an eyebrow of yours flicking up a couple centimeters. A sliver of a confused smirk tried to crawl onto your face.

“Really? They’re… just doodles. I don’t really think I can draw, like, a full commission or anything.”

“Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just maybe like, I dunno, a page or two of all… these guys…” He didn’t mean to pause when gesturing to them, but it just happened that his eyes caught sight of one particularly creepy drawing that managed to concern even him. Only because it came from you, of course. “Doesn’t need to be special or intricate or whatever. Just somethin’ I can look at and think of you, I guess…”

That was enough to pull your head from your shoulders a bit. You glanced over at the sketchbook, giving a genuinely awkward chuckle as you lowered your slightly-still-bleeding hand. 

“… I’ll, uh, definitely will have to make them a bit more presentable, though.”

“If you want,” he shrugged.

Softness returning to your features, you gave him a gentle nudge with your shoulder. It was enough to cover away all the stress that only moments before threatened to consume him. 

“Oh shit,” you suddenly gasped, flipping the notebook shut, “what time is it?”

“Uh… three forty-seven?” Piers replied once he got his phone out.

“Yeah, that’s my cue - I’ve gotta walk  _ all _ the way to the other side of campus, so I’d better get going. You’ll be back at the apartment, yeah?”

He nodded.

“Cool - I’ll be back around seven-thirty. I’ll try and show you what I made then.”

“Don’t get distracted from class stuff, okay?”

“Oh, you’re nagging me, now? You really gonna try and tell me not to get distracted during class?”

Piers shrugged his shoulders, but his cheeky grin was answer enough. You breathed out a laugh. He was more than happy to comply when you reached up to his cheek to guide him down for a warm kiss. As much as he wanted to linger, you pulled back, offering him a remarkably tender look.

“Thanks,” you whispered, sneaking one more quick peck on his lips before pushing yourself up.

You gathered your things and bid your goodbye, taking long strides down the street way before Piers could even untangle his legs from beneath the slightly-too-low table. He watched you blend in with a distant crowd, losing all signs of your individual form in the morphing blurs of bright greens, reds, and blues. Only when all signs of your existence were left to memories did he exhale the breath he had been holding, cradling his head in his hands.

This was  _ exhausting _ .


	6. Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chaps a little jumbly, I know, and a little gooey with cliche. But u know what? sometimes shit happens.
> 
> also shout out to my cat and my uterus for making this chapter like 3 days late lol

_ ♪ I leave here on my knees _

_ As I try to make you see _

_ That you’re everything I think I need _

_ Here on the ground _

_ But you’re neither friend nor foe _

_ Though I can’t seem to let you go _

_ The one thing that I still know _

_ Is that you’re keeping me _

_ Down ♪ _

_ < * * * > _

Junior year soon ended, and with fourth-year status came fourth-year problems. Constant meetings with advisors to ensure your path to graduation was on schedule, an entire summer focused on GRE exams, researching all the best and more attainable graduate schools that offered the Masters programs you were most interested in - you had become quite busy as of late. You seemed to function a bit better when things were chaotic, though, but the unfortunate drawback was that your disordered habits showed brighter than ever before. You began incorporating beanies into your style when your lack of nutrition started seeking revenge against your hair. But you being the person you were, you simply laughed it off and told Piers that you’d been wanting to wear them anyway. It seemed that you weren’t aware that he had heard your panicked frenzy the morning you noticed it.

Despite Piers’ substantial lack of stress as compared to you (he wasn’t interested in continuing school anymore, but still wanted to at least get his Bachelors in hopes of opening up a music shop), a lack of you meant a lack of encouraging thoughts. It’s been months since he’s last rehearsed with his band, having placed them suddenly on an indefinite hiatus after suddenly passing out after a set one night, and his guitar had long since been gathering dust in the corner of his bedroom. He had to start finding more creative ways to keep himself awake, too, as even the lightest roast of coffee would send him into debilitating panic attacks followed by several minutes of heart palpitations. That was probably the worst part of it all, losing coffee. He really liked coffee.

You figured it was time to figure some shit out. Which he supposed was valid. It wasn’t like he was necessarily happy with the way things were (nor the way they had been, with his terrible memory and terrible stomach and overall terrible quality of life). But the idea of putting in all that effort - going back to journaling dismal meals, following some strict regimen as determined by seven opinionated health advisers, actually learning to live as a stable human being once more - all that made him dizzy with nauseated contempt. He could hardly remember yesterday, let alone who he was before all this nonsense started. Is that life really one worth returning to? Was it ever really a life worth living?

At least you were determined to find some progress. He figured he’d at least try to stumble along after your footsteps until you inevitably moved too fast for him to ever catch up to. After that, well… He figured everything would end. A bittersweet finale, perhaps one best lived with the lingering memory of all that you were in the forefront of his mind. That would be enough.

Not long after that affirmation, however, Piers could see things crumbling to pieces. No matter how much he tried to ignore it all, the end to this story was drawing near.

“How long have you guys been together?”

The question came unprompted, unexpected. It was enough to silence the entire room, freezing both you and Piers to your seats as more than a dozen eyes fell on the two of you. John blinked in surprise as Fan Girl gave a seemingly sweet-natured smile. ‘ _ Sweet’, my ass… _

“Is this true?” John asked.

Piers figured he should say something - lie, at least. But his heart was beating so fast, the static in his head hissing beyond comparison, he could hardly think to move. You seemed to be in a similar state of shock, having dropped your pen onto the ground without even giving it a second glance.

Fan Girl fluttered her silly blue ornate fan against her chest, giving a ( _ fake _ ) shy giggle.

“Sorry, maybe that wasn’t appropriate of me to say… I just figured, you know… I saw you both hanging out together when I was out to get some tea the other day. It seemed to me that it was romantic.”

At this point, many of the other girls shifted with obvious discomfort in their seats. The idea of sinking into the dark eternity of his hoodie to become nonexistent seemed like a good idea to Piers. John gave a disheartened  _ ‘tsk’ _ .

“Well, uh… You guys  _ are _ aware that we have rules against meeting outside of group without the group’s knowledge, right?”

The musician was able to break through the static to glance over at you. All the color drained from your face, you at least managed a nod.

“Right, then,” the older man scratched at his cheek, “I’ll leave that in the notes for today. Your health teams will discuss this with you both at your discretion. Hopefully things will be solved next week.” You nodded once more, sinking further into the shame.

Shame that was, of course, attributed to Piers.

Exactly what he  _ didn’t  _ want to happen.

John was correct, though. The following week, things had been sorted out. More or less.

In his meeting with his physician (the most fitting for the job, as she was the most brutal member of his health time), he had basically been told to end the relationship ‘ _ for the sake of both your health and theirs _ .’ Something about how your combined disordered habits would be fuel for the flames, how neither of you were in the position to actually benefit the other because of your equally disordered mindsets, blah blah blah blah… He already  _ had _ a solution to the problem. Too bad his team didn’t figure out what that was before he canceled all his future meetings and ignored all their messages. You didn’t know that, though. Even after you crumbled into pieces after your therapist explained their side of the situation at hand, Piers sought to ensure some pleasant finale to this story. He wasted no time in drying your tears, distracting your frenzied mind, and encouraged you to continue with your progress. For nights he pretended to be that voice of reason you had been for him, hoping his warbled take on your words would bring back that curious symphony to your heart. For days he lived in the fantasy that  _ this just might be okay _ , all the while your precious plants were dying all around his apartment since you’d started staying over more and more.

And you were getting better.

Of course you were. All your efforts were becoming worthwhile. All your pain was beginning to ease. And, of course, it wasn’t long before you reached out that hand of yours  _ just like you did back then _ towards him in hopes of pulling him up with you. Piers had been in that position once before, and he knew how it ended. There was only ever one kind of ending to these sorts of stories, it seemed.

Soon came that chilled December day  _ \- one almost too nostalgic to be content with _ \- when Piers woke up a few minutes after you, lazily crawling out of the seemingly ever-growing mound of fuzzy blankets in a mindless pursuit for you. Usually you’d be teetering around here and there, either muddling through assignments or curled up on the couch or making yet another disaster in the kitchen. This time, however, you were in none of these places. In his exhaustion, he thought nothing of it, instead focusing on getting a glass of water.

Fuzzy static buzzed at the man’s temples as he gazed out into the nothing. Vibration from water hitting the glass kept his hand in reality, but all else became disfigured members drifting through a numbing vacuum devoid of time and reason. The fluorescent lights above him kept the world in a stasis, the outside world fading from view as he drifted into that silent stillness yet again. A land of Nothing, inhabited by Nothing, which was fueled with Nothing - all for the sake of Nothing. A perfect dystopia for Piers. Perhaps the end would be something like this.

“Piers?”

You voice cut through time and space, pulling the man out of his trance faster than he could process. He snagged his hand out from beneath the faucet, setting the overflowing glass down as he wiped his hand dry before turning towards you. Something about that look on your face didn’t sit right. His gut was already burning from the sight of it.

“You haven’t been going to Student Health, have you?”

He hesitated. Your tone of voice seemed a bit softer than usual, no hint of anger or frustration to be found. Maybe sadness.  _ Likely  _ sadness. It was getting hard to tell the difference, these days. 

"Says who?"

"Dona was asking if you graduated already. She said she hadn't seen you in weeks."

He hummed, deflating just a bit. Dona, the primary nurse at Student Health - the one always waiting to check him into his appointments. Finding no reasonable response to that, he simply sighed with a shake of his head.

A simple “Why haven't you?” was the reply.

“... Haven’t really felt like it.”

“I thought you said you would tell me if things got bad.”

The words in his head nearly left his mouth, but glancing over at the still much-too-full glass of water, he figured he at least owed you some sort of effort in this conversation.

“You’ve got enough stuff on your plate. Don’t need you worrying about things that can’t be helped.”

“But I don’t mind,” you tried to smile, taking a step forward, only to quickly inch back as he stepped back. Piers cursed himself briefly, trying to disguise his screw-up in the form of him leaning against the counter. Regardless, you still seemed quite on edge, fiddling with the tender calluses on your knuckles. “You know I don’t mind, right?”

That question danced around in the air for a few minutes, it’s lingering resonance feeling not unlike a dancer searching the floor in vain for an available partner to waltz with. With the man’s lack of answer, your eyebrows furrowed a bit. A hint of frustration. Only a hint.

You seemed to pick your next words carefully, saying them slow as if testing the quality of each and every syllable.

“I’m getting really worried about you. Like _a lot_. I don’t want anything happening to you -”

“Like _what_?”

Your eyes snapped back up to his, fear trembling in your eyes as he forced himself to hold eye contact. A deadly question, the both of you knew. You were the one to falter this time.

“I know the school’s health staff isn’t the best, so… maybe it’d be best if… you know, when we graduate -”

“No.”

“It wouldn’t be for -”

“ _ No _ .”

“Piers,  _ please _ ,” you practically begged now, seeming so small even with all your rising frustration. “We shouldn’t have to fight over this.”

“There’s no fixing  _ this _ ,” he curled his arms around himself, quickly losing all sense of where his body ended or began. “No sense in messin’ yourself up tryin’ to fix me.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but paused. That passionate response that seemed to bubble in your throat withered away, replaced with a slight frown. “Who said you need to be fixed?”

He didn’t respond. He figured the slight tremble of his hands would be answer enough.

“Piers, you can’t  _ fix _ people. That’s not how it works.”

“Then what’re you all tryin’ to do, then?” He snapped. “If it wasn’t a bother to you, then why’re we tryin’ to change? Tell me all day long that you’re not tryin’ to fix me, or that you don’t want me to change, but that’s  _ exactly _ what’s happenin’.”

“That’s not what -“

“I don’t care if that’s not what you meant - that’s what it  _ is _ . Don’t use me for your own goddamn savior complex.”

The echo of his words bounced harshly around the small kitchen, earning a wince from you. It was enough to make Piers shrink back a bit, throwing his gaze somewhere else - anywhere but your face. The static from his head started its rough descent down his throat, the fire ants of anxiety ready to claw down deeper into his gut once more.

Moments passed him by before his heart stopped in realization -  _ a Pause _ . 

His eyes flicked over to you. Hands limp at your sides, a grimace of dejection in your eyes -  _ oh God, was this happening so soon? _

It was supposed to be his favorite moment. The very moment after he said something that he didn’t realize was absolutely horrible, where a dreadful silence would thicken the air around him to the point of suffocation. 

Any other soul would use this calm of the storm to sputter out an apology -  _ any apology _ -

Or say how they didn’t mean what they said -  _ because he wasn’t thinking  _ -

Or that their words came out wrong -  _ or was it just him that was wrong - _

Things that would indicate that there was a miscommunication between brain, mouth, and heart. But Piers stopped bothering with that a long time ago. 

Because that’s what he always told himself.

Because at the end of it all, it didn’t matter what he said. 

There was no fixing this. 

There was no fixing  _ him. _

What pulled him back into reality wasn’t a slap, nor was it your voice shouting vitriol back at him. No - it was just your footsteps leaving the kitchen, the last recognizable piece of you disappearing down the hall.

This was it.

It has come full circle.

Piers blinked mindlessly as the shock held the floodgates at bay, holding with it his ability to breath.

The beginning, middle, and end of his own story passed him by, as it always did. At least it would end soon, he figured.

_ At least it can end with this. _

That realization alone nearly sent him reeling. He pressed his lower back into the ledge of the countertop, hands reaching down to grasp the counter until he was sure he’d snap his joints. Eyes pressed shut. Lips knitted together. All of him, braced for what was to come.

_ At least _

_ it will end _

_ with you _

…  _ pat-pat-pat _ .

His eyes fluttered open, brows furrowed together as he processed that it was indeed the same you who had lightly patted his chest for attention. Your face, though still rather downcast, tried to wield a smile up to him. His eyes flicked down to your left hand, which you held on display for him to see. It was one of your plants.

“When you think about it, people don’t actually grow plants,” you started off slowly, gently taking his hand to wrap his fingers across the cool clay pot. “Just like how you don’t grow kids. You raise them, and support them. And just like people, you can’t change a plant. Plants beyond help will die, and apple trees will never grow oranges. I’d like to think that people are the same way, too. Kind of.”

Piers arched an eyebrow, still gazing down at the awkward little succulent you placed into his hand.

“Um,” you hesitated briefly, no doubt losing sense of your own words. “What I’m trying to say is… I don’t want you to be different. I want you to be happy and healthy and the best kind of ‘you’ that you can manage. And I guess, yeah, I’d really like that so I can have the privilege to be around you and I guess  _ have _ you, in a way… But it’s just…  _ ugh, why can’t I say words _ ?” You groaned.

He watched in silence as you quickly regathered yourself.

“Even if I never get to see it reach the potential I see, I’d like to help tend to a tree that might find and bring a lot of happiness.” You met his eyes. “But that can’t happen if me or the tree dies.”

Everything became quiet.

Piers held eye contact for as long as he could physically manage. Eventually, his lashes fluttered, trying to transition back into reality as he looked back down to the plant. Some light yellow and brown tinted the tips of its pointy leaves even still, but it was obvious that the little plant was getting better.

Would it have recovered on its own? Perhaps. But would it be where it is now without your gentle, caring touch? Definitely not.

The musician jolted a bit as he felt your palm press softly against his cheek, patting it dry. Had he been crying? How long? Was he really that out of it? His eyes met yours once more, seeing just how tired and worried and stressed and  _ afraid _

“Will you try again?” was about all you could say in that soft of a tone, trying your best to wear that smile of yours as best as you could. You weren’t specific with your words, but he knew exactly what you meant. “Please?”

Your thumb absentmindedly traced the sharpness of his cheekbone. Your hands suddenly felt so soft, perhaps even warmer than before. And with time and effort, you would only grow warmer. But the question he really wanted to know was: Would he?

It wasn’t long before he melted into your embrace, sighing apology after apology until his words lost all meaning. His fingers pressed deep into the skin of your back, holding onto you for dear life as if to say “ _ Please don’t disappear. _ ” And you - in all your strangeness - held him steady until he could breathe in peace once more.


End file.
